


𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒 𝒹'é𝓉é

by delibell



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Little Women (2019)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drinking, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Lots of cute awkward momentsw, Mayhaps drug use (nothing extreme just weed), Romance, Smoking, Summer Vacation, Timothee saying "Good girl", cmbyn inspired, sum french, sum italian, summer in italy, whole lotta pinning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22651021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delibell/pseuds/delibell
Summary: Somewhere in Northern Italy in 1983 you meet Timothée and summer feels like a dream.
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 84





	𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒 𝒹'é𝓉é

_Juin_

**SOMEWHERE IN NORTHEN ITALY 1983** you take a cautious look around for the first time. It had been an absolute hectic forty eight hours of planes, trains, taxi rides and buses, all to get into a remote little somewhere in the countryside, all of it a tired blur in the back of your mind. And you still feel the haze of sleep around you like a blanket, making everything appear so unbelievably soft: the garden, the fountain, the endless vine yard and the song of crickets and birds and something lulling from the radio. You step off the porch, pass you grandmother—she in her favourite spot, magazine in one hand, cigarette in the other. Her eyes gaze you up and down in a wordless question— _settled already_? You don’t reply, instead breathing in the heat and the scent of wildflowers; the air is like wax on your skin; warm water in your lungs. The sun’s glare is purging.

“Here.” She nudges, and with an owlish blink you gingerly take the small notebook she shoves into your hand, “Buy everything on the list.” Her accent is thick as she says this, handing you her wallet with a mumble in Italian, one you fail to understand. You want to say that you’re tired; that you would much rather lie down on the soft grass and let sprinklers – in sputters of cold drops – refresh your skin; that you’d rather sink into a pleasant daydream while watching the cloudless sky pass from blue to black. But you don’t. Instead, you nod, hastily shove the things into your bag and pick up your bike, the red one, the one you haphazardly pushed into the bushes when you first arrived two hours ago. You hop onto it and wave goodbye but she is already preoccupied with her read.

The town is a mile away, and the road is one of gravel and dirt and a faint cloud of dust follows after you like a cape. Green fields sway like the sea; spots of yellow and red dot it with budding flowers. You watch them as you pass, wind in your hair, sun on your skin. You wonder if summer here will be enjoyable. You also wonder was it a mistake to leave all of your friends behind – high school is done and you will never return there. Perhaps you should have spent your days enjoying the company of those you shared years with. But you knew that if not now, then never. Your grandmother lives so far away, and when you ship off to university, you doubt you will ever visit her again.

The town is small labyrinth of cream coloured clay houses with red roofs and flowers. The streets are empty besides lone cafes – you hear cheers from inside, the overly enthusiastic ones, ones that can only come from rapid fans of sports. You pass them, pass the square, circle seemingly every corner, but there is nothing that can help. Perhaps you should’ve asked where this shop _is_ exactly, or perhaps there are only small local ones run by families and you have to go from door to door. The prospect of that frightens you and you come to a stop. Your Italian is mediocre at best, only fine at worst, and speaking to strangers was always a cause of anxiety. The heat does not help, either.

You spot a figure emerging from a nearby building – flower hung, sand coloured with chipping off paint and a _Pepsi_ vending machine by the door. The man is tall and lean and wears a colourful shirt that’s too big for him; he takes a drag out of his cigarette and with his head lent gently downwards regards the area before counting his cash. “Shit.” You mutter under your breath, pushing onto your bike and rolling closer. His features come into view and the first thing that comes to mind is pretty. “ _Excusi-moi_ –” your throat dries up when his eyes meet your own; heart leaping in your chest you realise you used the wrong language. Your lips part but nothing comes out, and like a fish out of water you open and close them and you beg that he thinks the red that dyes your cheeks is from the scalding heat.

“ _Vous voulez un cigarette_?” The last thing you expected was him to offer you one, let alone to find a Frenchman in the middle of Italy. He gives you a polite smile, as uncertain as your own, and hurriedly fishes for his pack in his back pocket, “ _Un instant, je vous prie_ …” He mutters. You blink.

“ _Non! Non…Merci_.”

He halts his movements, then shrugs, “ _Je suis Timothée_.” and extends his hand for you to shake. With a gulp, you do – his hand is big, much bigger than yours, strong, but bony – muttering your name; he grins, “ _Enchantée_.” He says, and you can’t help but smile to yourself at how much it sounds like _enchanted_.

“ _Enchanté, Timothée_.” You recite; the sun’s glare burns your back; cigarette fumes mix into the air and you choke, if a bit. Settling on your bike, you search your mind for a quick explanation, flame the hope of having a dictionary somewhere on you but you know that you don’t, and instead you shyly hook a strand of loose hair behind your burning ear and try to think. He seems in no hurry, watching you with an inquisitive gaze, his mission to count his euros entirely forgotten as his wallet sits half opened in his hand. “ _Ahh_ —“

“Your French is fine,” He says suddenly, with a note of amusement in his voice – it sounds a bit deeper in English. Noting your surprised expression, he shrugs, “but not perfect. That and you don’t smoke. Figured you’re English.”

With a shaky laugh you say: “Not all French people smoke.”, though you can’t deny the comment about your accent being wobbly.

“Yes they do.” Timothée states. He looks around the square and you follow his gaze only to find no one in sight. You turn back to him with a soft frown, but he’s smiling, “I’m the only somewhat French person here, and I smoke. That makes me all of the population. Therefore, fact.” As if to prove his point he takes a puff, perhaps a too big one, and he huffs and coughs ungracefully.

“You must be really bored.” You say, trying not to let a grin slip on your face.

“You’ll be, too.” He counters, “Not much to do here, if you haven’t noticed. Anyway, where you off to?”

“ _Oh_!” You hurriedly haul out the notebook with your grandmother’s grocery list, “I actually came over to ask where’s the shop…if there even is one?” You finish unclear, your eyes roaming to the building behind him.

“Betting lounge.” He explains. “It’s by the statue.”

“What statue?”

“Since you’re asking I’m assuming you haven’t been there yet. Come on, I’ll take you.”

“No, there’s no need, really, I’ll manage—“

“Come on,” He starts walking, a bit slouched, but relaxed, “need to spend my winnings anyway.”

He’s already quite the ways away when you finally decide to follow him. Biking up next to him, you ask, “You bet on a game?”

He grins, “And now I’m twenty euros richer.”

The walk there is quick, much quicker than you imagined, and you memorize it easily. The statue of a woman – pearl white, divine – stands next to another café and by it a red sign reading _PANINI Da Rita_ ; stacks of fruit and vegetables sit on display and Timothée’s bike next to them. He helps you shop, converses with the cashier – an old man with a sunburn – in what you can only assume to be a familial way. When the deed is done your bike’s pouch is full and your bag is too. Satisfied, the two of you ride out of town, and you find yourself on the same dusty road.

The evening is beautiful, pink-violet, calm. The heat had subdued into something tolerable, but Timothée, in his perpetual dreamlike tone, had warned not to get too used to it – summer’s here are hellish, and sometimes even the nights are hard to endure. You ride in silence, enjoying one another’s company, tired, despite the fact that you did so little but talk and ride to the only shop in town. He seems lost in thought and so you allow yourself a moment of indulgence, a moment of shameless staring. He is most handsome; he reminds you of Michelangelo’s David, chiseled in stone but softer than Rosemary, with his wild curls and long lashes and tired gaze.

“So, what’s your story?” He asks, ushering you out a dream. He turns to you, lighting another cigarette, “Why’d you come here?”

It takes you a while to form an answer, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Your gaze wanders to the endless plains, to the same flowers you passed – or different ones, perhaps?—now purplish-blue. “I’m off to university in September.” You finally say, forlorn, but a small smile makes its way onto your lips, “My mum said I could go anywhere. As a graduation gift. I thought, maybe I want to travel with my friends, or maybe I want to stay home, really get ready to leave.” _The future frightens me_ , but that you don’t voice, “And my gran lives here, and I haven’t come to visit in…well, since I was five or six, really. So I thought, why not here? You know? Just to get away from the city for a while.” You finish. Glancing at him, you ask, “And you?”

“My parents and I come here every year.” He explains, “But yea,” He looks up, “I suppose once I’m off to uni I won’t come back for a while, too.”

“What major?”

“Acting. You?”

In a half breath you say your own, in the same uncertain note. Before he can ask more, you change topic with a grin, “Won’t get anxious on stage?”

“Nah, been on stage all of my life. Feels like I belong there, to be honest.”

“Play something for me.”

With a laugh, he says, “Now?”

“Sure!” You egg on, “Come on, can you cry on spot? I always wanted to see that.”

“Morbid.” He retorts with a grin, “Maybe next time.”

 _Next time_. So you will meet him again. The thought excites you, and bashfully you look down with a small smile.

“So…” He starts, “Will you give me your number?”

In a flurry of panic you almost bike off of the road and into a ditch—he laughs, and you curse at him for it. You explain that you don’t know the telephone, but something in your mind clicks and you mutter “ _Wait_ …” and stop. He does, too, throwing his bud away as you search your bag for that very same notebook. Flipping through the pages, you exclaim “ _Aha_!” under your breath and tear out the one with your number on it. Your grandmother most likely assumed that you might need to call her from a payphone. She most definitely _did not_ think you’d give it to some kid whose last name you don’t even know.

Or did she? You can neither confirm nor deny.

He puts the note into his pocket, seemingly satisfied. You continue moving. Before long you note the approaching in split the road and beside it a fence and bushes and the vineyard. You stop by the gate, smiling at him, and curious he motions with his head to the house peeking past the trees, “You?”

You nod, “Yeah. You live far?”

“Two more miles.”

“That’s…a long stretch.”

Leaning in, he says “I like my privacy.” in what you can only interpret as a playful way. With one last wink – or were you just blinking and imagined it? – he wishes you a goodnight and rides off. You watch his back for a moment before you enter the garden. Finally, a breathless giggle escapes your lips as they stretch into a grin, and you slap your hand over your mouth, so giddy that you nearly tumble off of your bike again.

-*-

You never assumed mornings could be so loud in the middle of nature—the birds, the insects, the water from the fountain, the workers—everything is like a song, one you will need time to get used to. Back in the city there was nothing but cars and people and you almost never left your windows open. Here, though…here you might make an exception. It’s hot again and Timothée’s words ring in mind and briefly, sitting in your bed, hair a mess, sheets on the floor, you wonder if he was real or some hallucination. He hadn’t called yet, and it has been a couple of days. Though you had been making yourself busy, helping here and there and catching up on sleep. Taking a comb and strutting to the bathroom, you hum to yourself. _Of course_ he was real. But if he wasn’t that would be really disappointing.

The day slips by like a dream: one scene you’re in the garden, reading, soaking up the rays of the sun, in the next you’re in the kitchen, asking what’s for lunch and gulping mouthfuls of cold lemonade to cool off, then you’re in the living room, on the couch, eyes closed and just _listening_ : to the footsteps, the Italian, the music from the radio – how can something so soulful play in midday?

The telephone rings when its evening and you’re in your room writing letters to friends. You’d think nothing of it, but you still by the desk, your heart tumbling into the pits of your stomach almost ready for it to not be him. You break into a smile when your grandmother screams your name from downstairs.

“Hello?” You ask, breathless, pushing the red telephone to your ear. Your gran, muttering something about you nearly losing your head, walks back into the patio with her magazine.

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

It’s him. Definitely him. You bite your lower lip, trying not to smile, trembling lightly.

“Same as every day. _Nothing_.”

“You wanna go swimming?”

“I—uhh, sure.”

“ _Je passe te prendre demain à 15 h_.”

“ _D'accord_.” You agree softly, leaning onto the wall. He mutters something, something starting with _j’ai hâte de_ but you can’t quit catch it, he’s too quiet. With a frown, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing. See you then.”

“’Kay, ciao.”

He hangs up first. You’re still smiling into the receiver.

-*-

He met you by the gate with a groggy hello –it was a bit past 3pm, the sun at its peak and unforgiving – but he had informed you that he had fallen asleep and the haze around him stayed till you reached the destination. There was little conversation, mostly pleasant silence, as he drove just a bit ahead through the bumps and the holes in the field and trampled flowers and weeds alike. He kept warning – watch out, bumpy patch up ahead, _I once broke my nose here_ with a vague motion to the ground – but his voice was so quiet it was almost drowned out by the loud chirp of crickets. You drove past a forest, small one, a gathering of tall trees in which the shade was heavenly, the wet soil making you breathe easier. And before long came the lake, glimmering in sunlight, the whiff of water refreshing the very core of your soul.

He throws the bike down and turns to give you a small smile, promptly yanking his shirt up and taking it off without so much as a warning. He’s pale, and lean, but still pretty, and you hastily look away as you set your bike down gently. His shoes come next, then his socks and shorts, and leaving a mess he promptly jogs to the peer – a stack of wooden floorboards that creak and groan under his feet – and jumps in with a delightful splash. You laugh under your breath, pass the meadow, inhale, feel your lungs expand, free as a bird.

“Well come on!” He urges from the water, “It’s not cold!”

“Wish it was, to be honest!” You retort with a smile, taking off your clothes. You try not to look at him as you do, but you feel his gaze on your body. You mimic his movements, rush to the peer and with a mouthful of air your body pierces the water. _Splash_! The cold engulfs you pleasantly, like the company of a long lost friend, and for a moment you relish in the freshness before surfacing. Your hair sticks to your face and you hastily shove it away. Timothée laughs. You splash him. He only laughs harder.

“Believe me you don’t want to start _that_.”

If only to spite him, you do anyway, and he shows no mercy in splashing back.

There is calm after the storm, the war, the merciless shoves and breathless laughs and screams bouncing off of the water. Your skin is wet and you lay in the grass exhausted, frying under the sun, the dizzying scent of nature making your head spin pleasantly, as if you’re drunk when all you have drunken today is lemonade. Timothée lays beside you, eyes closed, breathing evenly, and if it was not for the occasional glance he stole at you, you would have assumed he had fallen asleep. It’s lulling, all of it. It feels like you awoke late on a Sunday afternoon with the immeasurable pleasure of having no responsibilities and absolutely nothing to do. Conversation feels like a dreadful task as every muscle in your body is exhausted beyond measure, yet you find yourself yearning to hear his voice.

“Is this all you do?” You ask quietly, lips barely moving, eyes closed. He hums.

“Yes.” He mutters with an exhale. You feel him shift next to you, lying on his side to face you, “I lay around and sleep all day. And occasionally I wander around.”

“Like a cat.” You say with a smile. He snorts.

“Are you a cat or dog person?”

At this you pry your eyes open and find a task so simple so unbelievably hard. You meet his gaze and marvel at how his eyes glimmer doused in sunlight. Your smile stays, dazed and happy, “How could I possibly pick a favourite?”

His head is resting on his arm and the way he looks at you makes you think that he might kiss you. Strange intimacy is trapped within his gaze, thoughtful, curious, and the half smile on his lips does not help. Your heart beats like a drum, and momentarily you are afraid he will hear it, somehow, like some wild call. You turn away and close your eyes again, butterflies in your stomach making you ticklish and even a bit ill. In an attempt to calm down and shoo these thoughts away, you try to think of anything else but him beside you, so close yet so agonizingly far.

It unnerves you slightly how you have grown to like him in such a short amount of time. You try to rationalize it, tell yourself that you are young and so is he and he is handsome and interesting and charming in his own way and emotions have to be directed at someone, don’t they? The two of you are isolated from the rest of the world and this crush is, in the grand scheme of things, only a desperate, unconscious attempt at finding something to do. Something to be occupied with. He had said it himself, activities here are sparse and boring.

And really now, if he does feel anything, anything at all, it is most likely fueled by the desire of having a bit of excitement before returning to his normal life. Because he is bored.

Why else would he look at you like that?

Suddenly a shadow casts over your vision, blocking the sun, and you feel his breath on your skin and he—

_Pinches your cheek._

“Wake up.” His voice shimmers with amusement, and lazily you open your eyes. He’s smiling, “You’ll get a sunburn.” He promptly states, pulling away and standing up. He offers you his hand and confused you take it.

“I wasn’t asleep.” You mutter in defense. He pulls you onto your feet. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, could it? Though, the light redness of your skin proves otherwise.

“It’s been…” He looks at his wrist. There’s no watch there. “Five hours.” He says with a stupid grin. You shove him.

“Shut up.”

Timothée only laughs.

-*-

Days pass slowly, but you do not mind. You meet him often, and his calls are regular, and he not once or twice showed up unannounced, much to the pleasure of your grandmother, who finds his boyish smile and deep voice simply _charming_. She is quick to put him to work, and so the two of you pick grapes, sometimes throw them at one another with hushed laughs; he helps with the dishes when your gran invites him to stay for lunch or dinner; he plays the piano when you’re reading in the living room, secretly watching him instead of allowing yourself to get immersed in a novel, because really now, no fiction could be more interesting than him.

“It’s beautiful.” You say one June evening, and he promptly halts by the piano, his fingers hoovering above the keys. He turns to you in his seat, cigarette hanging from his lips, yellow lamp light illuminating his features. He looks like taken out a painting of mellow oil paint. You close your book, having done little progress on it. “Is there anything you can’t do, Timmy?”

He ponders the question for a moment, his eyes roaming the interior before they settle on you, “Statistics.” He states awkwardly before turning back to the piano. You giggle and shake your head.

“That’s… very specific.” You ponder aloud.

You accompany him to the betting lounge and watch the game playing on the TV with little interest, occasionally curiously observing a game of cards Timothée joins. “You’ll be my lucky charm.” He says on moments when you insist he will lose all of his pocket money, though his words promptly shut you up. The betting lounge is usually occupied by older men, though all of them are nothing if not sweet, and most seem to know your grandmother. _Bella_ this, _bella_ that… Timothée had started to tease you with the nickname.

“ _Bellaaa_ ” He drones, crouching to get his soda from the vending machine. The night is warm, though a cool breeze tickles the back of your neck as you cross your arms over your chest, pouting in mock annoyance. You can’t exactly deny how it, coming from him, sounds endearing. The drink hisses when he cracks it open, taking a big gulp, “ _Bella bellaaa._ ” He repeats with more enthusiasm.

“You’re such a dumbass.” You state, fighting the smile threatening to slip on your lips, yet it does anyway. He giggles.

It feels like a stepping into a different reality when you visit his summer home.

The first thing you feel is the heat; the sun burns your skin, pleasantly at first, in kisses, but the more you stand the harsher its glare becomes. Then come the sounds – the trees, the birds, the insects, the radio, muted, but still heard from within the house. Lastly the scents, dizzying, flowers, fruits, perfumes, washing detergent and water—you inhale it all, as if it could stay in your lungs forever. The yard is spacious and ornate, greenery and colours and clay decorations and a pool – you glance at it briefly, at the glimmering waves, let the smell of chlorine whiff to you before you move away – and then at the bikes, lastly at the house – cream coloured and romantic. Dreamy. Perfect. Eden. It feels like there is sunshine in your chest.

Mrs Chalamet strolls out the open door with a cigarette and a smile and she looks lovely – rosy cheeks, dark eyes, silky hair – and you gulp as she engulfs you into a half-hug, “Ah! You must be the one Timothée always talks about…” She pulls away slightly to glance you over, “I’m glad you got him out the house.” She says with a secretive note and smiles, squeezing your upper arm. Her hand wraps around your shoulders – her perfume is strong, like midnight, “He’s just upstairs— _Timothée_!” Her accent slips into her speech; needles pick on your skin when you hear thundering footsteps coming from the second floor, “See, another friend came over so he’s–”

She does not get to finish because he emerges with a huff and, “ _Lâchez-la, maman. Tu m'embarrasses_.” He scolds under his breath. His mum lets go of you, fake offended, whispering “ _Je suis désolé_!” in an exasperated tone. She glances at you with another sly smile, before saying she’ll be in the study and sauntering away. He watches her go, strangely focused, holding a stack of papers in his hand.

“Sorry about her,” Timothée says sincerely, light rouge tinting his cheeks, “she’s very curious. And a bit noisy.”

“It’s okay.” You insist. The tension eases out of his shoulders with that. “What you holding?” You point at his hand.

“Ah, just notes. Some new compositions.” He says absentminded, grabbing your hand with his spare, “Come on, I want to introduce you to someone.” and pulling you inside.

He leads you to the kitchen, brightly lit and cosy, with bowls of fruit and lemonade glasses, flowers; you breathe the conditioned air tinted with something citrusy. Though as he enters, his hand slips from yours and with a smile he motions to the unfamiliar girl sitting by the table, a red strawberry by her lips, eyes alert and pretty. You try not to frown, yet the confused twitch of your face and the sudden bitter taste in your mouth betrays you. The girl notices – of course she does, women are too perceptive for their own good – and stands up, plopping the strawberry into her mouth and chewing quickly, “Hi!” she sings, her voice dreamlike, rye hair like waves around her face, “I’m Saoirse.” She comes in for a hug, appearing a bit awkward, perhaps shy, and her arms hang loosely around you. Having enough sense to return it, you quickly engulf her, but let go just as quick. You mutter your name under your breath, and she, with a soft smile, says, “Oh,” and then motions to Timothée vaguely – he’s peeling an orange, “ _I know_.”

“Are you two…?” You don’t know how to finish the question; you aren’t sure if you even _can_ finish the question. Your gaze roams from him to her and back, and he, pressing a button, turns off the radio.

“Friends.” Saoirse confirms, “Since we we’re…babies, probably?”

“Ah.” You nod, suddenly feeling like an awful third wheel. She offers you a seat, and not knowing what else to do, you take it, shoulders stiff, chewing on your bottom lip. She hands you a glass of lemonade, and you accept it with a small “ _Thank you_.”

“No problem.” She chirps, hopping onto the table, swinging her feet above the ground, “ _So_ …” She starts, hooking a lock of hair behind her ear. You take a shy sip; your mouth feels like sandpaper. “Timmy said he’d play us something new he came up with.” She leans in slightly, “Private show. We’re lucky.”

“Right, grab your drinks, prepare your applause.” He says tautly, shuffling to the living room. The two of you follow after him; take a seat on the couch as he makes himself comfortable by the piano, clearing his throat a few times. Saoirse, sitting so close your shoulders brush, whispers, “He’s a bit…embarrassed.”

“Why?” You whisper back.

“You two.” Timothée turns back with a warning glare, pointing his finger accusingly, “Shush it, now.”

“Sorry.” You blur. He looks at you and nods.

“Good girl.”

“ _Oh my god_ …” Saoirse wheezes under her breath. He shifts in his seat nervously, runs his hands on his shorts, flexes his fingers, and lastly, with a deep inhale, starts to play, eyes strained on his notes and the various ink stains and revisions on them. The melody is fragile, lacking confidence, and it occurs to you that it’s your first time seeing him so frazzled. Saoirse nudges your shoulder, and with a gulp you glance at her. She motions for you to go to him, and you shake your head. She rolls her eyes. _The seat is big enough for the two of you_ , she mouths, nudging you again, this time almost making you spill your drink. Heart beating heavily in your chest, you set your glass down and your hand trembles lightly as you do.

Your footsteps are silent but he feels your presence, perhaps notices the shadow you cast, and scoots and you sit down and uncertain on what to do with your hands, you fold them on your lap and give him a small smile. He gives you one back, glancing at you and then back at the notes and back at you again. His finger misses a key and he curses softly, and then continues, pretending as if nothing happened. You simply sit and listen, baffled by his jumpiness. It sounds as beautiful as ever.

He relaxes after a few more notes, breathing out and closing his eyes. In a moment of immense comfort, forgetting about your surroundings and the curious pair of eyes watching your back, you lay your head on his shoulder and he tenses before easing once again. The afternoon floats by like a dream.

-*-

It’s a quiet, inky night, wild with stars. Palpable fumes fall from your lips, from his lips, as you sit on the windowsill and gaze into the seemingly never ending darkness, at the shapes of trees, at the flowers in the garden illuminated by candle light that is yet to be blown out by the gentle breeze. It tickles the back of your neck, the skin of your cheeks, your knees drawn close to your body, an unconscious effort to become smaller. Too lost in thought. Reality is strange tonight, not quite there, not touchable, simply felt. Different. The air is different, you are different, yet the same. You feel like something had shifted today, changed in an incurable, terrible way. Though how or why or what is beyond you.

Timothée’s room is on the second floor and when you entered it, the only thing you thought is that is absolutely him, could not be anyone else’s: from the messy sheets to the scribbles on notebooks, and posters, and clothes thrown around, books lying here and there half-read and never intended to be finished. Saoirse had bid you goodnight with another hug, one you returned this time, comfortable and happy, heart afloat like a butterfly. She is your friend. This you realised once, after Timothée stopped playing and gently tilted his head to get a better look at you, she clapped and giggled and when the two of you pushed apart, too quickly, too awkwardly, she gave you a knowing smile and took your hand and led you outside to get some fresh air. The two of you laid and sunbathed while he splashed in the pool, avoiding the both of you and your snake-like whispers, full of secrets, of secrets she was willing to share because, and she admitted it in a feathery sigh, “ _He likes you, you know_.”

And those words of hers, so simple yet so sincere it ached, you could not shake nor purge from mind. So when he offered you a cigarette and plopped onto his bed, you accepted it, if only to distract yourself from the fact that it is now so unbelievably intimate to be alone with him, when in truth that is rather silly because he had been your only companion for the first month of summer. June is ending now, but _something_ is starting, something that bloomed when you first went swimming and then lounged for who knows how long on the dry grass. You sat on the sill by the only open window, breathing in the fresh air mixed with fumes. It calmed you, a bit, tamed the chaos in your mind but your hands still trembled, and you would not, or possibly could not, look at him.

He is no better, now that you have noticed. He is sporadic and he sits up and lays down and then goes to pace and flexes his fingers and pretends to be immersed in some random note he picks from a thousand littering his writing desk, and then comes back to sit and after a while repeats. It grates your nerves but he can’t seem to find a position he is comfortable in, nor think of what to say. Alas, he turns on the radio and lowers the volume, and a familiar, dreamlike tune, soulful yet strangely romantic, plays after a moment of static.

Your eyes meet. In the shade his appear almost black, the forest of green now shadowed and mysterious. He scratches the back of his head and walks over, extinguishing his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and leaning onto the wall. Moonlight dyes his features in a pale melancholic blue.

“You can stay,” He says, trying to sound not as invested. Crossing his arms over his chest, he shrugs, “in Saoirse’s room. Or in mine. Y-You can, uhh, have the bed.” He gives you a lopsided grin, content with his offer.

Throwing away the cigarette, you flash him an apologetic smile, “That’s alright, I should be going soon.”

“You really don’t have to.” He insists, eyes roaming outside, “It’s late.”

“My gran will wonder where I am.”

“You can give her a call in the morning. I’m sure she won’t mind.” He mutters, “Besides, if you get in trouble just blame it on me.”

“You sure you want to face the wrath of a scorned Italian woman?” You question with a quirked brow. He shrugs.

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” He admits. You snort. “No, but I’m serious.” He looks down, conflicted, his arms falling loosely at his sides, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them. Lastly, ever so gently, his hand reaches for yours, his fingers playing soft patterns on your skin, “I…wouldn’t mind.” He glances up, as if to ask if it’s okay, and of course it’s okay how could it not be? Your fingers intertwine and you give a light squeeze and he smiles, breathless.

“Okay, then.” You submit, softly, love struck and rosy. Your lips are dry and so is your throat; your heart beats louder than the music.

“ _Puis-je t'embrasser_?” He asks in a half whisper, shocking you into silence. Huffing and thinking you misheard him, you blink, muttering “What?” under your breath, meeting his gaze. He smiles, not quite sure himself, though his eyes burn with longing, “Can I kiss you?” He repeats, still as quiet, as bashful. You freeze, your mind drawing blank, struck by disbelieve and ignited with an unquenchable thirst. Wordless, you nod, feeling like a star that’s about to explode. He comes closer, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does, and his other hand comes to rest on the side of your jaw, gently guiding you to his lips. His kiss is soft and testing, clumsy even, and when he pulls away you see yourself reflect in his eyes.

“I, uhh, wanted to…” He mutters against your lips, “–do that for some time now.” He admits with a breathy laugh and you smile, relishing in how his skin feels on yours in sweet caresses.

“Me too.” You agree and it’s his turn to grin.

“Took us long enough, then, huh?”

“Yeah, took us long enough.”

You kiss again, slowly, memorizing his lips, his cologne, feeling the scratch of his stubble. His hands wander to your hips as the kiss grows deeper, losing the initial tender and becoming overcome with suppressed passion, now unleashed. He leans in closer, messily, and you feel yourself grow numb with want—

You yelp, latching onto him for safety, and he freezes, holding onto you. You almost fell out the window. He, alarmed, gently pulls you away from it, hands quivering lightly as he closes it. You slap your hand onto your raw lips, giggling uncontrollably, adrenaline making you giddy. He, with a shaky exhale, laughs too.

“Y-you, uhh, okay?”

“Yes.” You say after you catch your breath, “But I… think we should just go to bed. Before one of us falls and breaks something.”

“I’m prone to falling out of bed.” He admits.

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss the tip of his nose, “I’ll make sure you don’t.”

You two stumble about one another in an almost shy, though undoubtedly affectionate, way. His hair is a mess from your fingers and his cheeks are the colours of rose petals, and he wears an expression of a love sick puppy not quite yet used to the butterflies in his stomach and the tickle in the back of his throat. He gives you a shirt, a clean one, and it smells like washing detergent and the lawn after rain. You smile when you put it on, smile when you notice him watching you lying in bed plopped onto his elbows, smitten. You join his soon after, throwing the sheets haphazardly on your bodies; it’s warm in his room, and his body is like a furnace by your side.

His arms snake around you and pull you close, his chin coming to rest on the top of your head and he sighs, dreamily, in a way all lovers do, “Saoirse is gonna freak tomorrow.”

Closing your eyes, you hum, “Will she?”

“Nah,” He breathes out a laugh, kissing your temple, “but I’ll have to endure her ‘Told you so’.”


End file.
